


Like Me

by xHonestSecretsx



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Disability, Disabled Character, F/M, Fluff, Forced Marriage, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Osteogenesis Imperfecta, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2019-09-06 22:44:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16841920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xHonestSecretsx/pseuds/xHonestSecretsx
Summary: Ivar encounters an earl’s daughter who is, well, just like him. She drags herself wherever she goes.





	1. Chaper One: A Cripple?

[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/d8fb68b447a722839390aad171319e13/tumblr_phmj2z6C3h1v19l0n_1280.jpg)

He was king. As far as he was concerned, he was god too. He stood on top of the leveled off area of his throne, crutch in thick furs with his chalice in a gloved hand. His many earls cluster about– offering coin and gift to their king. He had received several swords, fine and beautiful thralls and expensive cloth sewn by careful hands. Everything was going fantastic until he noticed someone was missing as he commenced his toast.

The earl by the name of Njáll was missing. He owned a rather pressing piece of land. A healthy, beautiful town that overlooked the a cliff with rolling waters. Seemingly incapable of being defeated, Njáll had begun to turn grey. Ivar considered what Earl might come after him.

The rich clang of chalice and horn signals the end of his toast. In place of relaxing, Ivar took down the stairs in search of the old man with long blond hair beginning to lighten. When he finally found the man, it’s nothing short of a interrogation.

“Where did you go during the toast?” He asks.

Njáll turns– the thick wall of his muscle seeming to block him as he stands awkwardly. It hasn’t gone unnoticed by Ivar. He turns his head as if to peer over him when Njáll clears his throat.

“I was…” He begins seeking an excuse, flopping like a fish without water. His eyes are wide, showing his large brown eyes had white all around his eye. He’s searrching for an excuse. For something. Ivar moves against him, teeth knit.

“Where were you?” He says again.

“Please don’t be angry with him.”

The voice seems to be without owner. He looks from one shoulder to the other, inevitably finding no one around. Then suddenly, Ivar feels a bit of pressure on his lower limb. His head turns to find a girl by his foot. Her hair is down, twisting braids like a crown pin the sides of her hair back. At first, he isn’t sure what to think. He simply looks to the Earl, what little eyebrows he had furrowed up like they had knots.

“What…?” Ivar draws back his crutch, leaning as she pushes herself up onto one of her lovely hips. The abruptness of her shifting means that her long skirt has shifted up over her long legs, covered by stockings– but notched. He knows exactly why.

“He came to get me. Njáll is my father. I… I make more trouble than I’m worth, I’m sorry.” She says, hiding deformed feet under her skirt. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

She’s just like him. Ivar’s mandible depresses, eyes softening in what she deems is pity. Then he looks to her father. A little haphazardly he speaks patently:

“She’s a cripple?” He says.

Instantly she’s on her forearms, dragging herself away from those gathered. His blatant words have obviously not gone over well. Njáll follows her swaying body with his eyes. She disappears into the crowd of men and women as quickly as she appeared.

“Now you see why I have to watch her for injury or those who would want to injure her.” Njáll explains himself. “I meant no disrespect, King Ivar.”

Ivar falls without words for the Earl. Instead he limps in the direction he saw her disappear in. It should not be hard to find a woman crawling on the ground like he once did more often. Most people made a clearing for people like him to slip by. When he finds her, she is sitting with a cup of ale warming within her hands. She glances up to catch his curious blue eyes.

“I didn’t mean to ruin your evening, King Ivar.” She clears her throat adorably, setting down her ale and twiddling the frayed edges of her long hair pooling at her hips. “I make a mess wherever I go.”

Ivar drops his crutch, using the chair beside him to maneuver down onto the ground beside her. This height is familiar to him; long, long ago. Back when mother was still babying him. When she was alive.

“I once knew the feeling.” Ivar says, folding his arms one over another. “But you are a pretty girl, what would you know of making messes?”

It’s almost a tease. Ivar feels wary to this strange feeling. After Freydis left him for another man– he never dared pick another woman. It had been a long time. The girl laughs, tucking her hair behind the shell of her ear to expose airy earrings and a delicate neckline. She’s clearly embarrassed. Maybe she even likes his words from the way she fiddles with her hair, almost flirtatiously so.

“Pretty girls can make messes as well, my king.” She annunciates his title as she looks to him.

“Ivar. It is just Ivar.” He corrects. For some reason– his title sounds annoying off of her lips. Ivar… Ivar could be better.

“I feel as if that’s too informal for the heir of Ragnar and scourge of Midgard.” She teases, running her hands down her creamy skirts. “So King Ivar it is.”

He wouldn’t win this one. He had to take a loss. For now.

Ivar leans into her ear, glancing to the others around. He’s teasingly close. The Earl could likely tell he was interested. “So… pretty girl, what do you know of being messy?”

“Have you ever been a woman?”

Now that didn’t make sense to him.Women were treasures. They were all vied for. The number of women after Kattegat’s great plague was pathetic. Of course, they still did the work women were meant to do… but they were endlessly more special than men. Unless she meant…

“No.” 

“Um, what I mean is.” She says. “They like to pick on me.”

Then as she excuses herself, somehow, he still isn’t really sure what she means. He learns some days later.


	2. Chapter II: Walk

Ivar the Boneless was an intrepid king.

He overthrew the likes of all of his brothers, the immovable Lagertha and cast out the seer’s foolish words of discontent. The rage of the moment had passed and with it, Ivar’s interest. Women of deliciously gluttonous frames and skinny typical ones poured icy cold water over the flame that was Ivar the Boneless. Usually he would set himself out upon the salty waters in search of his relief from idle boredom. This time was different.

“She went out to see the sight of Kattegat, King Ivar.” Her lithe, blonde haired mother set him out in this witch hunt. Yet you were neither dragging yourself through the busy marketplace, nor gracing the granulous shores of Kattegat. The clouds soon roll in to the thunderous clap of Thor’s mighty hammer. Sprinkles of water fall from the heavens. Incredible. As a woman that had to drag herself wherever she went, how fast could you really go? Strike that– he knew exactly how fast he could go. He commends himself to returning to the safety of his dry hall. Tomorrow was another day.

“I just want to pass.”

The source of the voice has Ivar turning his head in the direction of a small alleyway. After hours of searching, he found you. Down the alleyway, several barrels of ale have fallen to block the view of any cripple. Its more than purposeful. Any time you shift, one of the men would take large sweeps to block the way to pass, shoulder to broad shoulder. Curiously Ivar takes to the side of the building for cover, opting to listen. 

“And we’re just trying to catch an easy fuck, babe.” One of the men respond. “It’s not like a cripple like you can keep a man, right?”

Ivar courses his tongue across his hard palate, listening carefully. You exhale forcefully. “Maybe so. But I have no interest in you. Please move.”

“Pull up those skirts, cripple, and we’ll let you.”

Cripple. A million times he’d been called it– you had been as well. Everyone knew the condition you were in and the one he was in as well. They doubted your abilities as a woman. It was enough for him to intervene. But as he turns the corner, it is to a scuffle. Clearly, it is you who rolled upon the dirt and rose your blade to the speaking male’s innermost thigh. Your blade carries outwards, raking through arteries, veins and muscle, as the older man drags himself back in the dirt. No match at all for your well muscled arms dragging you over the dirt with the slippery knife in your fingers like the worst of images from nightmares.

“What the fuck!” The wounded man barks. “Go away! Go away!”

The other man snatches his hands to his belt, warning with a call out to the you. The cries don’t exactly reach your ears– only Ivar’s sharp words. “Enough.” Ivar clips his crutch upon your skirts to keep you in place. Your fingers dig up the dirt beneath you as the men take off out of the alleyway. You push up on your palms, twisting your body around to face the king.

“So this is what you meant by being a woman.” He states, amused as he feasts in your bloody body.

Your bloodied blade wipes against your skirts before tucking it back into its space along your gloves. How many of these instances has your blade encountered, he wonders. For a man, it was different. A son of Ragnar with many brothers was not harassed often.

“A cripple woman, King Ivar. When you’re on the ground… well…” You look to his crutch on your skirt. Ivar suddenly removes it from your skirts, allowing you to drag yourself past him towards the coveted exit.

“Come. You need to get off of the ground.” Ivar affirms. You could have laughed, pulling yourself alongside him with a streak of blood matting dirt to your dress. The sprinkles of water begin to wash away the stains. It wouldn’t be long before the land would be soft, pliable. Then Ivar himself would be crawling with you.

“I can’t get off the ground.” You laugh at his assertion. It was one thing, you think, for Ivar to walk. He was King! Of course he had to walk. It was another for the daughter of an Earl to walk. His eyes fall down to you with a sharp stare. You feel the need to go on. “Please… I will fall.”

It’s an atrocious complaint. If he could do it, he thinks, any cripple can.

“These people see you as an animal when you are on the ground. If you make them think you are like them, you will be. I’ll show you.”

The king was curious and strange to you. The night before he was receiving women and gifts behaving as high as he thought himself to be. Now, he was lending his aid to you without an agenda? You are doubtful of his pure intentions. No man was without ambition.

“What do you want instead?” You ask as you both breach the front door of the Great Hall beside his white flags flapping in the wind.

“Company.” He looks down to you. There was a type of honesty in his voice that you hadn’t heard once in this man. You stop, looking up to him with wide and doubtful eyes. He chuckles just as you do and carries on inside the Great Hall.

“Don’t you have dancing thralls to keep you? I’m filthy company.” You note, turning to sit down on the planks over the floor.

“Could be worse.” He calls his thralls– and before long, you’re both cleaned of your clothes and dressed in a gown that isn’t quite your own… nor was the metal fortifying your legs. The rain came down in loud, reverberating thumps upon the ceiling. Your chest fills with stress at his next words.

“Try it.” Ivar hands you a spare crutch. It’s a sturdy weight, obviously meant to support his body of muscle. You look upon it doubtfully, Your arms shaking from a days work of dragging yourself around. Using the table, you hobble with sharper huffs puffing from your lips.

“Now I know this is a bad idea.” You say.

“Stop squealing.” He grunts in response. “Take it and walk.”

If it was a bad idea to come to the Great Hall with a loud, sassy king, it was probably a worse idea to actually listen to his big mouth. You took the crutch from his fingers– and quickly find that was a fat mistake. Your lower limbs feel heavy and foreign to you, fighting your attempts to walk. It only takes seconds for the crutch to go one way and you to go another, breaking your fall with your forearms. You feel your bones protesting as if you had gotten lucky this one time.

“I told you.” You huff, shutting your eyes tight. “I can’t do it.”

Ivar makes his way back to the chair nearest your crutch and sits with his legs to an angle. Upon the chair, he holds the arms. “Do it again.” He says.

A repeat of that? You could have scoffed! The next time, you might burst your forearms. Then the healer would be over by your side lecturing you on listening to men. All men were stupid men, or so she said. You look away.

“Do it again!” This time, he demands.

“I can’t!” You hiss out. “I am not you Ivar!”

Ivar leans back in his chair slowly. As his back collides with the wooden back, he shrugs. “Fine. Drag yourself around wherever you go. Then when those men come back with more men, you’ll be a cum-stuffed pig.”

He didn’t need to be so harsh. You… you knew that. You knew that it was only time before one man became a lot of men. It wasn’t like you thought yourself particularly beautiful… but an easy target was an easy target. No one saw you as a woman when you had to drag yourself like a dog with broken hind legs.

Finally you submit to his will, dragging yourself to take the crutch and set it on the table. Then you raise on to the chair, using your palms to steady the crutch underneath you. Ivar sits just steps away, facing you with his head raised high. A small bob tells you that the king is waiting for your next move. Air fills your nostrils spiked with apprehension, then, you press on. Your feet might feel like they weigh a thousand pounds of gold and silver– but you do what you have to.

You take one wary step. Exhale the air, draw your other foot with your hand on the crutch as shaky as the cracks of thunder outside. The second step is just as much of a mistake as you thought it would be, but yet, you take another. Four whole steps pass before you tumble. Ivar’s arms shoot out to break your fall, close enough that there is not need for you to tumble altogether.

Despite his cocky smile, it’s the first time you feel weightless.


	3. Chapter III: Loyalty to the King

When you were off the ground, you could feel the glory of the fresh salty air against your face. Nor was there anything like having a reason to look presentable beyond obligation to your father. There was bound to be tons of men at this celebration Ivar was having to mark the defeat of his brothers. Your eye kept shyly to Ivar, too embarrassed to admit you found him attractive in any regard.

“He is handsome… isn’t he?” Beside you, you found a beautiful blonde whispering in your ear. You don’t altogether recognize her as you sit at the table, combing your long hair out over your shoulder. Ivar sits upon his throne with his hands tight around his ale in a curved horn.

“Oh. Ohh yes.” You whisper softly. “He is handsome.”

“And you are beautiful.” She tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear. Strangely so– you turn to look at the soft haired blonde, unsure of what she is doing. In fact everything is new and strange without crawling upon the ground. Being able to take the time to look… like an actual woman. “You should speak to him.”

“What is your name?” You gaze into her pure blue eyes, wavering when you feel shyer than usual.

“Freydis.” She says.

“Freydis.” You smile. “Ivar could have anyone he likes, Freydis. So why a cripple?”

The slave girl brings her fingers up to pin locks of your hair back. Each small lock is done with beautiful pearl that your father had found in raiding England. Never before had you been willing to wear it. But… now… maybe there was a reason, after all.

“You are a goddess. Ivar is a god.” You don’t understand what she means. “Together you would make beautiful things. Just look, he is watching you.”

You look to the crutch that Ivar had dedicated to you, wrapped in soft white to reflect the new hope that you insisted upon. You smooth out your white dress, fixing the cincher before you garner the courage to stand up and take the crutch again. It’s hard when the Great Hall is so covered in people but… you’ve learned. You limp closer, your crutch pricking the floor as you drag yourself about with one hand pulling up at long skirts.

Ivar shifts in his seat. “(Y/N)! Come, sit in my mother’s chair.”

He pats it for the emphasis. You take one careful step over another and at long last-- you sit beside him in his mother’s chair. Flutters take over your belly as he leans over to you, letting his tongue tease the corner of his lips.

“The slave girl.” He says. “Is she married?”

But then-- any excitement you could have had died a sad death in your stomach, dropping in your smile until you catch it. You clear your throat, shaking your head as if you have no idea what just happened. Of course, you know. A man leading a life like his wanted a woman that could walk beside him and not have to battle on which side your crutches would be. You should be thankful to him that he taught you this skill. No one else had.

It wasn’t you he had been watching.

“I can find out.” You do all that you can to smile at him.

“I would like that.” He says, leaning back upon his throne. “You are a good, loyal friend.”

“It’s the least I could do for all you’ve done.” You sit upon the chair, your hands forming a crown when you notice something else occur. Your father comes forth with your mother, both looking to King Ivar with glee.

“You’ve taken very well to our daughter!” The two look between one another joyfully. “Should we leave her here with you when we sail home?”

“She’s welcome to stay in Kattegat.” He says. However, Ivar knows exactly what they are getting at and so do you. You bring your hands up as if to motion them not to say a thing! As if that could save you. Your father might have caught on but your mother had not. She was far too elated at the fact that you were walking earlier-- and now, that you were very likely getting married in her eyes! Why else would a king ask you to sit in his mother’s chair?

“And here we thought she would never marry!”

Oh Thor, put out your pain already. 

“Mother-- no.” You say. “King Ivar has his eye on another woman.”

Your mother silences.

“It seems she’ll be joining us after all.” He laments. You wish you could tell him otherwise. A daughter was the type of thing a man took pride in. Did he take pride in anything you did? That would have probably been a no although he would never tell anyone. “Pack your things.”

“You are leaving already?” Ivar looks to you.

“We have other duties to attend to.” Your father says. “We cannot stay in Kattegat forever.”

You reach for your crutch at your side, pushing yourself up to stand as you straighten your dress. Ivar stops you from going far, reaching out to grasp your hand. Your stomach abruptly flutters with excitement-- a feeling you’re now squeamish to.

“Wait.” He says. “(Y/N) can marry Whitehair. He is my right hand. He would make her a good husband.”

The old man Whitehair. Your lips part in reflection of your feelings of marrying him. For many reasons-- but he was… aged. He wasn’t your ideal man either. When a woman thought of a husband, she thought of a young man. One that was her age! Whitehair was older than even King Ragnar at his death.

“But he is so old.” Your mother says the words on your lips. You’re glad that it isn’t you that said such things.

“There are worse things than marrying an old man. With her condition she may never marry.”

You whip back around to Ivar, pleading him with sorrowful eyes not to do this. Whitehair could marry someone older… someone that would fit him. Not you. It was not fair to force this upon you while he would marry the beautiful slave girl below.

“It would make a good match. She could marry well.” Ivar coerces your father to go against the wishes of your mother and you.

“Very well. We will make preparations for a speedy wedding.”

No, no, no… Your skin crawls thinking of his hands spreading you apart in bed. What would he think of your mangled, twisted legs? What of when your legs broke and you were in agony? Could he… or would he be there for you then?

“You see, sweet (Y/N)! I am taking care of you. I would not let you lay barren and alone.” Ivar says with a lovely soft trill. It should have been a consolation but in its place on your lips is a small frown. Your hand not supporting your weight pulls your long hair over your shoulder, staring to the steps down from his throne.

“Thank you Ivar.” With those words, you walk down to Freydis’s side where she eats quietly. Then flopping alongside her on the bench you command her attention back onto you.

“How did it go?” She asks with a tranquil tone.

“He asked if you were married.” You smile, bringing your crutch over your lap. Freydis looks at you with a flat expression, searching your face for an answer as to why. You don’t know why he wants a slave girl for a wife when he could just as easily make her into a bed slave, but, it is what it is. It’s not that you blame Freydis. After all, she is able-bodied and beautiful. “I would go up there and make him the god you think he is.”

“What of you?” She quirks a foxish grin.

“It seems I am a dear friend.” You lean in, closing your eyes at long last. Typical that you would be. That’s what you always were. Your tears prick your cheeks before you are quite ready for it. Freydis shifts to wipe away a tear on the corner of your eyes when you breathe in heavily. Yet then,

“Do not cry. You are a goddess. You can have any man you want to.”

Except that one.

“Ivar has chosen me to marry Whitehair.” You look into the direction where Whitehair is-- right by Ivar’s side now. He beckons Whitehair forward and whispers soft words into Whitehair’s ear, his hand lazily holding a cup of ale. The two then look at Freydis and you. Ivar’s awe in staring at her is breathtaking and as for you-- Whitehair nods his head toward you. Ivar and he exchange a hearty laugh before he descends down the stairs towards you. Before Freydis can speak again, you take up your crutch.

“Hello, Whitehair.” You greet him, his long white hair tickling down his barrel of a chest. At the very least-- at least he’s not a fat man. He holds out his aged hand toward you, worn by the marks of a hard life of battle. You look toward his hand and considering your father has agreed to give him your hand, you’re not afraid to take it.

“Hello, (Y/N).” He says. “Want to take a walk with me?”

“I’d be glad to.”

The spring brought flowers to the fields of Kattegat. The youthful green grass and long blue sky seem hopeful at best. Whitehair isn’t a man that speaks too much. You’ve seen him banter with your loud mouthed kind before-- so you’re a little awkwardly shy to think that perhaps you’re not as intriguing to talk to.

“It seems King Ivar arranged a marriage.” He inclines his head when you stop.

“He has.” You look around the fluffy green field. It’s a little too soft for your crutch to take ahold. Whitehair lays down the furs on his thick shoulders so that you might sit upon them. You arrange your skirts over your so deemed hideous legs and sit fiddling with the long sleeves of a dress Ivar himself gifted to you over one of your many talks together.

“You can’t be excited to marry me.” He rumbles. “I am an old man.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” You mumble under your breath, playing with a small flower by your fingertips. He dips down beside you, tugging it loose and offering it up to you. 

“Ah, no woman wants to marry an old man.” He says.

“I hear some women are attracted to old men.” You attempt to warm him from those words. You’ve seen him around with young women. Maybe attempting to be in his good graces for the sake of living in Ivar’s Kattegat.

“Some, I know. I’ve had my share. But not you.” He says. “You’re attracted to King Ivar, I can tell.”

Was it that obvious? You hang your head, bringing your long hair over your shoulder. Ivar was not interested in you in that manner. So… you didn’t want to get hopeful. As you don’t take the flower, Whitehair tucks it behind your ear.

“Then we can agree this marriage is to maintain his wishes.” He holds out his hand, a pact. “I don’t expect you to be monogamous with me. Nor I you. Our loyalty will be to Ivar and I will protect and love you as my wife as well.”

You take his hand.

“Yes, Whitehair. It is good with me.”


	4. Chapter IV: The Bridal Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ❛ the marriage to whitehair goes off without a hitch... until ivar finds out that he has indirectly brought someone to kattegat.

Love was what it was-- and for you, it was ever complicated. You never professed to be a witty lover. After all you only knew so much about what it was to be one. What you did know was how to be a loyal friend. For Whitehair and you, you thought it would be all you needed. Your mother ran a comb through your long hair, preparing you for the wedding that was shortly to come. Your father spent a great deal of coin on this despite Ivar’s hand over the whole thing. Both of them had been fussing over this for too long.

A simplistic gold crown sat upon your head with beautiful leaf. Initially, you were shy of it but as your mother placed it on your head you felt a sense of pride washing over. It was a beautiful circlet upon your head that your mother once wore as well.

“It’s beautiful.” She looks you over. “I only wish it was for Ivar instead of that old fool. He’ll die before I do!”

“Mother.” You smile delicately in response. “He’s a good man.”

“The voice of wisdom, hm?”

Thump, thump, thump, thump!

“That must be him.” Your mother sighs, dropping the last of preparations to your hair. You look down into the basin of water, inspecting carefully applied to make up.

“She is ready?” Ivar’s soft voice came from the doorway. There he stood in a dark tunic, hand tight on his crutch. You fuss momentarily over the dress that so haphazardly drapes over the floor. That was something you never thought you’d experience. A proper dress that would sweep over the floor instead of being tied up.

“I’m ready.” You whisper, turning your head away. Your long hair sweeps over the curve of your ass. As you turn to face Ivar, you can’t help but notice his long stare. You think it might be the dress. It was tailored unfamiliarly close to your body for this wedding. Or perhaps you have too much gold on and--

“You look beautiful. Almost like Freyja.” He moistens his lips as he draws near. You hold your crutch tight when he finally made it in front of you. The king leans in, lips grazing your soft forehead.

“You’re perfumed.” His breath puffs across your forehead as he leans forward, his breath tickle the side of your face at the end of it all. “Rose hips?”

“Mhm.” You say. “They’re plentiful at home.”

He lingers a moment longer, close enough that your chest grazes his. You clear your throat, raising your hand up to his chest, gently stroking his chest gently.

“I-- Whitehair is likely waiting for us.” You flutter your lightly kohl-lined eyes at him.

“Yes.” He doesn’t move.

He raises his hand up to your delicate jawline, guiding you by your chin to look at him. He tilts his head down, nose lightly caressing yours. All thoughts stop as his cracked lips ease up against yours. Ivar turns his head, snatching the first of your kisses away. Before his lips could set a deeper kiss upon yours, you turn your face away. He reaches out to grasp your wrist with his, and so, you snap the hold on your wrist. A small simper of a smile pulls upon your lips.

“My husband is waiting.”

How could he argue? He did this.

The kiss.

That was all you could think of all night at the wedding table. While the hammer was set in your lap, when Whitehair stabbed the beam of the great hall, when the women came to fawn over your hair. Ivar’s kiss was ironed into your mind.

“What is on your mind?” Whitehair was well drunk, swaying a little as he leaned over to you. You glance up to him, smiling.

“Nothing, husband.” You shake off the thought. He tips your chin up with a calloused thumb.

“You’ve done nothing but sit here all night. Go, talk with the others.”

It was kind of hard to hobble in a dress that was this luxurious. The silk was unlike anything you ever had before, it was true, but it was so… so… long! You took up your crutch, weaved with flowers by Freydis. The Great Hall was buzzing with laughter. Whitehair was a well-loved man by Ivar’s great army. There was a great amount of wrestling, rumbling the floor where you walked when a man was thrown over another’s shoulder. The loudness of oud and happy slosh of drink all made for a very loud, very happy wedding party. You think that perhaps you should eat and wait for Whitehair to choose to retire but ahh, oh Frigg the floor is slippery!

“Oh--”

“Careful.” The voice is foreign and thick. A hand supports you upright where your crutch has fallen with a crack to the ground. “The floor has been made slippery by ale of the drunkards.”

As you turn in this strange man’s grip, you encounter sight of him unlike the men. He was a tall man with hair shaved on either sides down. His blaring red braids wove down his back; long and low. His skin was pale, perhaps more so than the other men you had seen in Kattegat. Startlingly like Ivar-- his eyes bear a bright brilliant blue.

“Oh… oh!” You step back, narrowly falling from his arms when he catches you with arms so tattooed-- you shriek. The noise cuts through the Great Hall. Upon his throne, Ivar hears. Freydis as well, turning to see the strange man with the tattoo of Yggradsil etched upon the side of his head.

“What is that man doing?” Ivar tucks his crutch underneath his arm. Freydis stops her husband in place.

“That is Rorik, he is of Novgorod.” She says.

Novgorod? Ivar twists, taking her hand to lay a small kiss upon the back of her palm.

“Of the Rus. He is the son of Whitehair’s blood brother.”

That would mean he was…

“A prince?” You chirp back with the stranger. He nods in his agreement.

“I came to celebrate my uncle’s marriage.” Rorik returns your crutch to you. Knowing who he was certainly stopped you from beating him. Certainly, Whitehair recognized him because he had not come to your side either.

“Oh. I see.” You agree.

“I did not know that old fool could marry something so beautiful. I came here thinking he would have dragged from under the floorboards of a desecrated cabin but no! Here you are! Look at you!” He laughs heartily, his voice trilling through the hall. There’s something carefree about the way he speaks that makes you giggle, looking down with fresh flowers about your head.

“I am not… I am a--”

“A lovely woman! Now I won’t have you say a thing against that one, more fair are you than these women here.” Rorik is a flattering man, really. “Now, come, I’ve brought you a sable fur. Have you sable fur?”

“Not that I know of.” You say.

“Uncle says they are here, how odd, well! Touch it around my collar.” He bends down, his cloak on top of his kyrtill exposing only one arm. You glance to the soft furs that surround his neck. You reach out, stroking the fur in one direction-- then another.

“It… is smooth in any direction.” You admire. Most furs would be granulous in one way or another but not this one! It was stunning. The Rus stands back at his full height and you finally get an appreciation of his dress. The largest difference is in his baggy trousers, wrapped in strips of linen and stuffed into warm boots.

“Is there many sable where you are?” You ask.

“Yes here, take it! It is yours. I trade women, honey and sable fur in my spare time.” He notices you shift uncomfortably at the first of those. “So I know what a fine woman looks like. And you, sváss, are a fine woman.”

He was definitely-- definitely, overbearing. You flush as you walk back toward your marital table, welcoming him to sit in the chair that Whitehair had abandoned. He sits comfortably, legs spread and hands preparing himself a pitcher of ale.

“I’ve never had anyone call me that before.” You note.

“Hm?” He rumbles past his drink, wiping dribbles of ale from a trim beard.

“Beautiful.”

He swallows hard, reaching out to tip up your chin.

“That is because these men here, mm? They do not know what they don’t have until they try it. And naturally, they don’t see what sort of wife you could make with the right amount of thrall.”

You hate it when you’re hopeful. After Ivar, or rather, because of Ivar-- you fear being hopeful. He glides his thumb along your lower lip, humming when you lean into him.

“You’ve only just met me,” Rorik says. Yes, you nod.

“And you’ve only just met me as well.” You respond.

“Oh, she’s brazen!” He laughs, looking side to side. Something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye. The King-- sitting upon his throne. His nostrils flare with a gaze intent on him, and him alone.

“I take it he does not like me.” His voice falls low. It causes you to lean in, turning your ear against his lips. You glance to where he looks, Ivar’s look of betrayal evident in the way he does not turn from Rorik. Not even once.

“That is Ivar. He arranged the marriage.” You say. “He is my dearest friend.”

“That would explain it all.” He makes a note, breaking the heated glare between both of them to look to you. “I would say that if he is looking at me like that, he must feel something for you as well.”

“That is unlikely. He is married to a gorgeous woman.”

“More likely than you would have me think.” He runs his thumb over his own teeth, deciding at long last just what he was going to do. Rorik settles upon his action with no forewarning, drawing your lips against his in a kiss of an unlikely sort. He tastes of the honey and ale he claims to trade, bitter against your tongue that-- oh fuck you’ve let him in before he even really deserved it! Clumsily your nose moves against his, he must have been able to tell that you’ve never done this before.

Or, at least, not before earlier that morning when Ivar stole your first kiss.

Your body is wrought in anxiety but regardless of it all, you lift your hands to his face, prickly with a beard that Ivar could not grow. He’s a commanding man, turning your head to kiss him more smoothly. Almost as if he thought he could teach you.

“He’s kissing her!”

It is likely. Rorik hums against your lips, separating with his forehead gently against yours. There is heavy shuffling behind him. Freydis’s cool hand falls on top of your shoulder, gently tugging you apart. You glance up to her, finding her expression stale as it could get at times.

“I appreciate your eagerness to join us in bed, nephew. But it is our wedding night.” Whitehair says beside him. Naturally, Rorik rises with his hand on the frankish sword at his side. You can’t help notice… Ivar has left his throne.

“I apologize uncle. You know me to have poor impulse.” He reaches out to place his hand on his uncle’s shoulder.

“I understand. Let's retire, (Y/N).”

\- - - - -

Let’s retire apparently meant let’s-go-see-Ivar because as Ivar stood in your new home with Whitehair, a basket of flowers was flung in the opposite direction. You stood with your hand anxious and tight around your crutch. A small flinch tickling down your fingers. Ivar turns up, coming so close to you that you can smell the ale in a heavy breath off his lips.

“What were you thinking, hm?” He steps forth, jabbing you on your upper chest with one of his fat fingers.

“I--”

“You weren’t thinking. You were thinking that he had pretty words.” Ivar turns away from you, pacing with a slouch. You glance off to where Whitehair is standing-- almost pleading. He lifts his shoulders and gives you a stern, no shit response with his eyes. He would protect you, most certainly, but not from his master.

You were on your own.

“You can’t control yourself.” Ivar stops. “This is why you had to marry Whitehair..” 

“I can’t control myself?” You scoff in your response.

“Yes. You can’t control yourself. Throwing yourself upon me earlier and now-- this?”

Your jaw slackens, turning down before lifting again to see the scrunch in his face. There was a lot of things you could handle but-- lies. You did not like lies. Perhaps he was telling himself this to make himself feel better. You limp forward to meet him, standing as straight as you could without dropping your own crutch.

“You are the one who threw yourself upon me, Ivar.” You say. “As Frigg as my witness I would not have thrown myself upon another man who thinks nothing of me.”

“You did not have a problem throwing yourself upon that man. Whitehair, what was his name?”

“Rorik.”

“--ah, Rorik.” Ivar corrects himself. “Rorik of Novgorod. That is what they call him. I hear he is a prince. Does it feel good to be chased by a prince?”

“Any woman wants to be chased by a prince.” You say out of sheer spite for this conversation. Ivar holds your gaze with wild eyes, biting his lower lip.

“Then I’m sure he would jerk himself to the sight of your mangled legs.”

He’s being unnecessarily harsh. You pull back at the last of his sentences, eyes moistening over just so. You don’t want to give him the gratification of crying-- and so you blink through the tears that spill down your cheeks.

“It feels good to be seen as beautiful by someone who sees more as more than my twisted legs, icy eyes and shattering bones, Ivar. You should know. Freydis loves you.”

He stops-- and as he does, you know that he feels the same towards the blonde haired girl. If you weren’t being stupid, you thought, he might feel the same towards you also. He retracts his attack by raising a hand to hold onto the side of his tunic.

“What is it about him that you like so much, hm? He is a stranger.” Ivar reasons.

“So were you.” You say, smoothing your hands over your skirt. Ivar takes a step closer across the floorboards, stopping just in front of you.

“He is not good for you. You deserve better than a slave trader.” This time, there is reason in his words. You could have understood if he had not been so abrasive. “What I did to you earlier, I apologize. The sight of a bride weakens me. It won’t happen again. The mixed signals in your head… they are making you go loopy.”

Loopy? Really?

“Therefore I forbid you to be alone with him again.” Ivar pulls your flower crown from the top of your head, eliciting a sharp gasp from your lips and throws it upon the bed. Your hands come to your lips, not sure that he completely understands what he has done. “Or any other man other than Whitehair.”

The shock wears you thickly-- unable to say one more word as he gives a short grunt of approval to your lack of words.

“I’m glad you agree, my friend.” Ivar takes his crutch, staggering past Whitehair to the door. As it slaps closed, Whitehair glances just barely over to you upon the bed now. You sit with the bridal crown upon your lap, tracing the flowers woven around gold.

“I had better go buy a bed thrall.”

What happened was as clear as day to him. There would be no sex in his marital bed. Or rather-- as far as you were concerned.

End Notes: For those not understanding my meaning in the removal of the bridal crown:

The bride would once again be arrayed in the bridal crown, which would be removed by her husband before the assembled witnesses as a symbol of sexual union. At some point in antiquity, this ritual defloration may have been an actual one, witnessed by the male and female attendants.

Similarly, I tried my best with the Rus. I’ll keep researching to make this better and go into detail about his warband later.


End file.
